Ruined Stones

by Eric Reed

  The whining voice was a dental drill boring into Baines’ aching head. He held the receiver further from his ear. When he’d joined the force he’d worked in the same station with Harris, then still a year from his rise in the ranks. “I know it’s a bloody nuisance, sir. But I can’t handle a murder investigation with no one but constables. Well, I could, but when I was found out my head would be on a pike.”

  The prospect of being separated from his throbbing head was not unattractive to Baines. He glanced toward the cupboard under the sink. He didn’t think the phone cord was long enough to reach that far.

  “How are you handling it so far?” Harris wanted to know.

  “I’ve assigned a constable to interview the neighbors. Wallace. He’s familiar with people in the area.”

  “Arthur?”

  “You know him, sir?”

  “We started out together. A good man.”

  “Back then, I suppose he was, if you say so, sir.”

  The voice from the Central Police Station suddenly sounded less shrill. “Wallace was an inspector before he retired. He can handle a simple murder investigation.”

  Baines couldn’t believe his luck. “But, sir, if it’s discovered that—”

  “Oh, never mind. If the higher-ups don’t like it, I’ll take the blame. It would be most helpful to me if I didn’t need to detail anyone to deal with this right now.”

  Most helpful to me too, Baines thought. “Very good, sir. If that’s what you want I’ll inform Constable Wallace. He’ll probably enjoy having a case he can get his teeth into.”

  “I’m sure he will. Report progress directly to me. Give Wallace my regards, will you?”

  Baines put down the phone, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes. He’d had a lucky break.

  He recollected telling his wife, Freda, about his visit to headquarters at dinner. She was naturally excited at him being put in charge of a station, even if it was a small one with only a handful of constables. She laughed when he described the sculpted gryphons high up on the facade of the police headquarters in town.

  “Gryphons? Never noticed them before. Next time I go by I’ll take a closer look.”

  “What’s a giffon?” His daughter Maggie was surrounding her peas with a wall of mashed potato. He’d had no idea she was listening.

  “It’s a lion with the head and wings of an eagle,” he explained.

  The little girl scowled. “Oh, that’s silly.”

  “No, it isn’t,” her brother Joey piped up. “Those monsters can fly after bad men, catch them in their big claws, and carry them straight off to jail. And they can fight the Luftwaffe. I’d like to see a Junkers JU 88 tangle with a flying monster.”

  Joey had his planes memorized as well as his alphabet.

  At the memory, Baines put his head down on the table and cried.

  ***

  “It would appear, Miss Baxter, that while you were chasing Ronald Arkwright someone else caught up with him.”

  Grace had finished explaining to Sergeant Baines how she had searched the pubs for Ronny. Between that and the air raid the night before, she’d overslept. She admitted it was inexcusable to be late the third day on the job. She’d expected a bollicking but instead Baines simply listened wearily to the speech she’d rehearsed on her way to the station.

  “Someone else caught up to him. He was murdered last night.”

  “Good God!”

  “A coalman making early deliveries reported the body. Must have happened during the night. In the same bloody place where our mystery woman was found. Done in with a knock on the head. Oh, and laid out in the shape of a bloody swastika. No doubt about it this time.” His eyes sat at the bottoms of two bomb craters. He apparently hadn’t been sleeping much either. “We’re keeping this swastika business quiet as we can. We don’t want the public getting the idea there’s a crazed Nazi sympathizer living locally. It would mean panic, attacks on businesses with German names, all sorts of civil unrest.”

  “I understand. No photos from the crime scene yet?”

  “No. There’s a sketch, though.” He took it from the folder on the table and handed it to her.

  Grace examined it. “It’s definitely the left-handed version, sir, the same as the first one.”

  “Was it?” Baines took the report back, scowled, and adjusted his eyeglasses. “Constable Wallace thinks it’s a coincidence, that both bodies just happened to fall that way. He’s out interviewing the people on Chandler Street and we’ve dispatched a constable to Vickers to notify Mrs. Arkwright. Queer situation, you lodging with the wife of a murder victim. Fetch me a cup of tea, would you? Get yourself one as well,” he added.

  Grace did as she was told. She couldn’t very well refuse to get tea for herself.

  The way Baines sagged in his chair he looked as if he were carrying the whole weight of Ronny’s corpse on his shoulders. He put the cup to his face and inhaled its steam as if to revive himself before taking a sip. “In a way it’s handy having an office in a kitchen. Well, that’s all we know so far, although you have a head start on the investigation given you know a bit about Ronny’s movements last night.”

  “Does that mean—?”

  “That I am assigning you to assist Constable Wallace? Yes. He was insistent about it and I was happy to take his advice.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Don’t thank me. Thank Hitler. Every able-bodied man in Newcastle is off to fight him. We’re left to keep the peace with the halt, the lame, and the blind.”

  Did Baines mean even a woman is better than a blind man? Grace hadn’t seen any officers who were halt, lame, or blind. Then again she had the impression they were avoiding her. At least Wallace was friendly.

  “But don’t get the impression I’ve changed my mind about women in the force,” Baines continued. “It’s a dangerous job. These days it’s dangerous for women and children in their own homes, never mind women trying to police the streets.”

  Recognizing the reference to Baine’s loss of his family in a bombing raid, Grace took a slow sip to avoid having to reply.

  Baines swirled the liquid in his cup, stared into it, and spoke to Grace without looking at her. “I regret our unfortunate encounter in the cemetery. I was not at my best.”

  “Sir—”

  “It must have made a bad impression on a country girl.”

  Grace stopped herself from telling him she’d known worse drunks in Noddweir.

  “Let’s say nothing more about it,” he went on. “The war has affected all of us and we must all carry on regardless. Now explain why you went looking for Ronny after he stormed off. I would have thought it more prudent to stay to protect Mrs. Arkwright if he returned.”

  “I hoped to scare him enough to make him avoid any more confrontations. I thought it would be helpful to Mavis.”

  Baines gave her a bleak smile. “You couldn’t have scared off a bloke like him. He has a history with us, you know.”

  “I hoped my uniform would put him on notice we had our eye on him.”

  “Although you were off duty? Never mind,” he told her before she could reply. “What about the wife’s friend, the Dutchman?”

  “Hans van der Berg?”

  “You say Ronny suspected him of having an affair with Mrs. Arkwright? Was he?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “He might have been?”

  “I couldn’t say. Mavis and I only met a day or so ago. I’m not sure what to make of her situation yet.”

  “Most murders are crimes of passion. You don’t need to belong to the force to realize that. The majority involve family members, husbands, and wives.”

  “Your thought is Mavis went out to look for Ronny after I left?”

  “Can you say for certain she didn’t?”

  “No, sir. But what
about the first death? Dead from a head wound, found in the same place, the body arranged identically. Surely the similarities suggest a connection?”

  “For that matter how do we know the mystery woman didn’t have a connection to the Arkwrights?” Baines set his cup down. “Another thought. Perhaps the gossip is right and the Dutchman really is Mrs. Arkwright’s lover. There’s possibilities there.”

  Grace felt her face getting hot. “I can’t imagine him killing Ronny, sir.”

  “You already think you know him better than you know the woman you’re lodging with?”

  Grace didn’t like the way Baines raised his eyebrows.

  “I was only thinking how people can be prejudiced against refugees.”

  “No doubt. Our job, however, is to find criminals, not to fight prejudice, real or imagined. Write down what you learned last night for Wallace to read when he comes in. We have a list of local aliens. Robinson will find out where the Dutchman is living and where he works, then you can go and talk to him.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  It struck Grace as peculiar that Sergeant Baines was sending her out to interview a man who was likely to later in the day visit the place where she was staying. Why not let her talk to him then? It was odder still he had assigned her to speak with Hans at all, a man she knew, however slightly. Shouldn’t the job have gone to Constable Wallace?

  Most likely it meant Sergeant Baines did not take Hans seriously as a suspect. He had made it clear he did not take Grace seriously as a member of the police force. The task was a good way to keep her busy and out from underfoot.

  Which did not answer the main question preoccupying her as she bicycled toward the refugee shelter where Hans worked. How did you officially interview a man whose kiss you remembered so vividly?

  It was a problem she did not have to deal with. Hans had not arrived that morning, she was informed. It had never happened before. Maybe he was ill. He wasn’t in trouble with the police, was he?

  Grace said no, he was a witness, to put his supervisor’s mind to rest. She was a well fed woman with a clipped accent Grace didn’t recognize, dressed far too well for the dingy offices where she worked.

  “He seems such a nice man, and we do screen these people, but.”

  A visit from the police had instantly convinced the woman that the nice man was, in fact, a nefarious spy or saboteur, and nothing Grace said shook her conviction.

  Was Hans going to have trouble at work now? That concern was overridden by a more pressing worry. Why wasn’t Hans at the shelter? Had his encounter with Ronny upset him enough to make him miss work? Another possibility refused to be shoved aside. Had Ronny gone out looking for Hans? And had the predator found the prey?

  Grace coasted down the steep hill toward the Tyne, squeezing the brakes all the way. Lost in foggy conjectures, she found herself too suddenly at the T-junction at the bottom of the hill. She clamped on the brakes as hard as she could and the bicycle slewed sideways and came to a halt at the edge of Scotswood Road as a huge lorry rumbled past.

  She wasn’t surprised to find Hans’ lodgings located on a run-down street near the river, not far from the Dying Swan pub she’d visited during her futile search for Ronny Arkwright. What she didn’t expect was the dance hall occupying the ground floor of the corner building. The Palais de Paree looked the sort of establishment that had never seen better days.

  Music escaped into the chilly air to mix with the muffled roar of machinery from the works across the road. Who would want to dance at this time of day? There was a door beside the dance hall entrance. Beyond a steep stairway led to the second floor flat Hans had listed as his residence. The narrow window in the stairwell was partially obscured by a crude wooden cut-out of the Eiffel Tower.

  Grace stood in front of Hans’ door, feeling uncomfortable. The sound of music from below reminded her of the dance at the church. She knocked.

  Her summons was greeted by a series of heavy thumps inside the flat. The door opened. The man who spoke to her in what she recognized as a Dutch accent was not Hans. He was short and powerfully built with a crutch under one arm, the other arm in a sling. He answered her questions in a gruff voice. He shared the flat with Hans and his name was Joop Pieck.

  Joop was shorter and stockier than Hans, his dark hair cropped to little more than a shadow. He thumped across the room with his crutch, sat at the table, and invited Grace to take the other chair. Fish boiled in a pot on a cooker in the corner.

  “Hans is in trouble?” Joop echoed the supervisor at the refugee center.

  “No. I just need to speak with him. Do you know where he is?”

  “Nee. Nee. He did not come back last night.”

  Grace felt a pang of alarm. “Is that unusual?”

  “Ja. Not like Hans. He is a clock. Hans is in trouble,” Joop frowned. “You are police. He is in trouble.”

  “No,” she said, but her heart, beating too fast, was saying yes, yes, yes. “Do you have any reason to suspect he might be in trouble?” she forced herself to ask.

  Joop shrugged. “We are foreigners. We are in trouble here always.”

  “Does Hans ever drink? Is there a pub he likes?”

  “Nee. He spends time with a lady friend, that is all. Friend he says. Only a friend.”

  “And he always returns in the evening?”

  “Ja.”

  To her chagrin, Grace realized she was relieved knowing Hans wasn’t in the habit of spending nights with Mavis or anywhere except his own flat. But it made his disappearance—already she was thinking in terms of a disappearance—all the more alarming.

  She stared across the table at Joop, trying to read his features. His face resembled weathered wood. His tone of voice revealed nothing beyond the struggle to put his thoughts into English.

  “I worry about Hans,” Joop said. “I am afraid he makes trouble for himself.”

  “How?”

  Joop frowned. He appeared to be trying to find suitable words and failed. He tapped his head. “Wrong, here. Since we sank. He is angry sometimes. Other times scared. He wakes at night, shouting. He sees things in his sleep. Bad things. What could he do when he is bad in the head?”

  “Is that why he is not working for the merchant navy?”

  “Ja. He is afraid of boats now. Afraid of the water.” Joop sounded as if he couldn’t believe such a thing was possible.

  Grace asked him to describe what had happened. It had nothing to do with the investigation but she couldn’t help herself. She wanted to know. Joop appeared almost eager to tell his story as best he could. He confirmed they had fled the Netherlands, seeking refuge in England. As they approached the coast a Luftwaffe patrol spotted them.

  “The planes came at us with a bad noise. Bad. Screaming. Then bombs. All around. Hitting the water. At first they miss us. We are all on deck, cursing the mof. We are only fishermen. Save your bombs. Damn mof.”

  Joop’s lips tightened and his features clenched in anger as he spat out the Dutch term for the hated Hun. Was it at the memory or his inability to communicate it adequately? “More planes. More bombs. Closer this time. Water falling over us.”

  His hands made swooping motions over the table. “Then boom! We are hit! And again! Suddenly I am lying on the deck. Fire and smoke is everywhere. I get up and look for Hans. My foot hits something. An arm. No body. Only an arm.

  “Through the smoke I see water. The ship tips sideways. The water is almost to the deck. Black water. And there is Hans, sitting down. His eyes. Such eyes. Bad. Dead.

  “Hans, he is not a good swimmer.

  “Planes come back. I cannot see through the smoke. I hear them screaming down. They shoot at us. Why?

  “‘Hans,’ I say, ‘you cannot stay here.’ He will not go into the water.

  “‘Hans, another boat will save us,’ I say. He does not say yes. He does not
say no. He does not move or look at me. He is looking at the black water with his dead eyes.

  “I take his arm and pull.” Joop made an appropriate motion with his good arm, hitting the crutch leaning against the table. It crashed to the floor, startling both him and Grace. He was silent for a moment. The boiling fish filled the air with a strong miasma. Below, Glenn Miller was playing.

  “Then we are in the cold water,” he resumed. “The planes scream. Bullets hit the water around us. How long? Forever? They go away. I help Hans swim. I think we will drown. We keep going. It is getting dark. Suddenly a shout. A boat has appeared.

  “When we get to land, Hans can speak again. The dead look is not in his eyes. Not gone. Now it is in his head.”

  ***

  “Didn’t I answer enough questions this morning?” Mavis let Wallace into the maisonette and showed him into the kitchen.

  Wallace took off his helmet and set it on the table. He unslung his gas mask, hung the box over the back of the chair, and opened his notebook. “I realize I’m inconveniencing you, Mrs. Arkwright, but in the circumstances…”

  “That’s as may be, but the last I saw of Ronny was his fist in front of me face. You canna expect me to be bubbling about him now, can you?”

  Brightly colored paper chains hung from the ceiling and looped up from the mantelpiece. On a side table two pine branches in a jam jar bent under the weight of tinsel and a big glass ornament apiece.

  “I’m here to get information, not to tell you how you should feel.” Wallace had been called to break up fights between the Arkwrights, so he and Mavis knew each other. His official visit was an uncomfortable situation for them both. “Constable Baxter told me she observed Ronny threatening you when she arrived home last night. I gather he then left.”

  “Yes. But I could have handled him if she had not been here.”